A New Day in America (13 page)

Westbrook is standing in front of rows of black and white screens.

“Sergeant Greene,” he says, sipping a coffee. “Thought you might want to see this.”

Every screen is full of armed men. Rows and rows of rag-tag militia surround the base—skinny, gaunt, and savage, clinging to heavy guns and artillery that seem distinctly above their pay grade. For every ten men there is a Humvee with a mounted turret gun, like they looted some militarized Humvee showroom. The crowd grins and rustles with excitement. A few are taking swigs of booze. They’re having the time of their lives.

Westbrook’s head is tilted toward one screen in particular. Nos gets a closer look.

A pickup truck stands just out in front of the front line of militia. Four men are inside. One aims a turret gun at the base. Another is stalking back and forth, clearly ranting and raving at the top of his lungs, though they can’t hear a word in the command center. By the ugly, sneering look on his face, Nos figures that’s just as well. In between rants, he pops a pair of fake teeth in and out of his mouth.

Behind him is a man on his knees who has clearly been beaten senseless for days on end. Above the man on his knees, a man is holding a giant woodcutter’s axe.

“See?” asks Westbrook, pointing.

The man on his knees is Tommy. His brother.

Tommy fucking Greene
.

“Get him an ACU,” Westbrook orders one of his aides, who looks Nos up and down.

“Don’t think we have a uniform that will fit, sir.”

“Then find one that doesn’t. He’s coming to parlay with us, and these jokers and I want everyone in standard uniform,” says Westbrook, wearing a standard Army Combat Uniform himself. “We’re not about to reveal rank before either side says a word.”

A uniform is soon thrusted Nos’ way. He ducks into the bathroom and tries it on. It’s pretty snug, and Nos feel even more oversized than usual. He checks himself in the bathroom mirror. Normally, his beard would give him away as Special Forces, but facial hair regulations have grown so lax that Westbrook’s whole entourage sports wild hair and beards. All except Sorkin. Nos breathes an ambivalent sigh of relief.
Tommy’s alive. Even if we’re all dead
.

A team of six marches out, led by Sorkin with Westbrook in the middle and three fellow Delta boys on the flanks and Nos in the rear. The D-boys look game as hell, with thick necks, wide shoulders, and big-ass guns. The whole crew cuts a mean figure.
If the fight were man on man, it’d be a massacre. Too bad it never is
.

They six of them march as Westbrook debriefs.

“Local militia. We’ve been trying to keep tabs on them from here to Kentucky, but they’re highly mobile. Seem to set up a new camp every few days. Lost track of them about three weeks ago. Man with the fake teeth is a ‘High Value Target’, a.k.a. the Tooth Fairy. Don’t know much about him, other than he knows something about warfare, and he’s about as smart as he is revolting to lay eyes on. He’s got a hostage, one of ours. Stay alert, keep the guns ready, and don’t fucking shoot anybody unless they pull. In that case, put the Tooth Fairy down first. Even if it kills you.”

They pass though two blast walls and then two fences to reach the Tooth Fairy’s party. They are real rag-tag. Guns are tucked everywhere they don’t belong, rubber-grip handles sticking out of belts without holsters, two rifles slung over shoulders where one would suffice. Would make it a whole lot tougher to fight, but they must have to keep all their belongings on them at all times.

Tommy looks terrible. Naked as the day he was born and about as wet. Blood covers his swollen face and his bare chest. His hands are bound, and his right index finger has been chopped off. Tommy squints at the six of them. He’s in terrible pain, but the finger is the worst of it.
Jeez. They cut it off and welded it shut
.

Tommy has terrible eyesight, and he clearly wasn’t able to keep his glasses. Nos wonders if he can even see his own brother standing there, all six-foot-four of him, but there is not a flicker of recognition.

“Hail, Navy faggots,” greets the Tooth Fairy.

“Army,” announces Sorkin.

“Beg your pardons, Army faggots.” His false teeth slide in and out and make a sickening sucking sound as he speaks. He wears a mesh trucker hat and his tanned skin is so close to the bone, he looks carved out of wood.

“Honest mistake,” says Sorkin. “No harm done.”

“I appreciate your tolerance,” says the Tooth Fairy.

“I appreciate your courtesy.”

“We are not all savages,” he says with a savage grin. “Not that this conversation hasn’t been a delight, but I’d like to talk to the brass.”

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Sorkin and—”

“I said
brass
!” snaps the Tooth Fairy.

“I can assure you I speak for—”

“Save your mouth for sucking Westbrook’s cock. I said
brass
. Turn your faggot ass back around and give me somebody I can talk to.”

Nos swears he sees Tommy smile.

“I’ve been commissioned to speak on behalf of the base,” says Sorkin, standing his ground.

The Tooth Fairy puts his gun in Sorkin’s face.

Nos’ gun and five others train on the Tooth Fairy.

Uncountable guns aim at them from the other side.

“Lieutenant,” says the Tooth Fairy, one open eye on the sights of his pistol. “You think your boys are good enough to shoot me before my bullet puts a hole through the bridge of your nose?”

“They’re good enough that if you shoot me you’re good as dead.”

“And which one of the two of us you reckon is more ready to die?” Asks the Tooth Fairy.

Westbrook lowers his gun and steps forward. “I’m the man you want to talk to.”

“Rank?”

“General,” he huffs.

“Stars?”

“Lets stick to business.”

The Tooth Fairy lowers his gun. Both sides do likewise with a clatter of metal.

“It’s OK, Donny Westbrook, I know you got two of those worthless stars. Just like I know you got about nine hundred people inside that base, and not six hundred of ‘em properly trained, and not three hundred of ‘em ever seen a battle.”

Westbrook glances at Tommy.
Sure bet the Tooth Fairy knows everything Tommy knows about the base. Torture has been known to make a man talkative. Tommy is talkative enough as is
.

“I assume you’re in charge here?” asks Westbrook.

“Well it sure as shit ain’t you.”

Westbrook lets out a long exhale, like even when times were good he’d rather shoot this fucker than have a conversation. “And what do I call you?”

“Call me the Khan, general. You know about the Mongols, by chance?”

“Not personally.”

“A brutal, nomadic people, the Mongols. Rather have a horse than a home. Found waking up in the same place every morning a distasteful way of living. When the Mongols would come across a town or city or whatever, their host would set up outside their walls, and that town would have a choice. They could give up all they had willingly or unwillingly. Now as long as those peace-loving villagers gave up all they had, and I mean all of it, the host would take their horses and bows and swords and move on. If not, well, the host would raid with a savagery that would make the Vikings look like Santa Claus. The men would be kept alive just long enough to watch their women raped by more barbarian cocks than feathers on a bird.”

“I thought you said you weren’t savages.”

“What I said was we ain’t
all
savages. No, we ain’t, but we kill. And that don’t make us no more savage than just about every great man in history and at least half the men in the Bible itself. We do kill. I reckon some of us like it well enough. Every man you see here had to kill somebody at some point to keep what they had and get what they got. Tommy Greene!” barks the Tooth Fairy. “Riddle me this. If there are two mouths and but one bite, what has to happen?”

“One mouth bites,” says Tommy, his mouth sticky with blood.

“Well said, young man. Tommy here’s a smart one. Smart enough to convince his superior officers to let him go whoring with a base vehicle and base gasoline first thing in the a.m. I call that smart.”

“I call it reconnaissance,” mutters Tommy.

Even Westbrook and the militia have a chuckle at that.
Tommy never breaks character
.

“I was a Marine, once,” drones the Tooth Fairy. “You boys heard of the Marines? It’s like the Army, excepting that Marines actually got a pair of nut sacks between our legs.” He flips his teeth out and then back in, as though the activity helps him think. “Served my country well. Wasn’t good enough, though, to get in your precious base. Sergeant Tommy Greene here said he’d have a word with you, Donny, about that. He assures me the general has the upmost regard for his counsel.”

“Tommy spoke truthfully,” says Westbrook. “His suggestion is duly considered. Unfortunately, at this time the base is at capacity. I can let you know if there’s any openings.”

“General, I have a feeling there’s going to be a whole lot of openings very soon. But I ain’t fixin’ to join up no more, though thank you kindly for the consideration.”

Westbrook gives a curt nod, like he wants to get on with this shit. “Then state your business.”

“My business, as you so aptly call it: you give me your fuel storage. All of it. Every last gallon in as many trucks as it takes to carry.

“In one hour if there is no fuel truck coming out of those gates, why, I’ll take such a rude gesture as an act of war. I’ll send you Sergeant Tommy Greene’s smart-ass head over your blast walls, followed by enough ordinance to raise this base to rubble. Then my men come, and the fun begins. It’s your choice, general. The way we see it is, you and your sweet little base have had every bite there is served to ‘em, while we had to starve and kill out here for every bite we got. And, speaking personally, taking what’s given ain’t half as sweet as taking what ain’t.”

Nos boards a Little Bird helicopter called Super Nine Three with three other Special Forces operators—two D-boys and a ranger thrown together. Two sit on each side with their feet dangling from the open doorways, blood types taped to their boots.
Usually a foreboding gesture. Now it seems optimistic to think that anyone would save them if they were at death’s door
.

“You boys ready to earn your danger pay today?” Nos asks.

The soldiers laugh.

“First choice of food in a tube,” says one.

“Dibs on spaghetti marinara,” says another.

The Little Bird’s rotor starts pounding the air, and they lift off, swaying above the base.

The plan is madness. At least, madness is what the plan has going for it.
We don’t even have the intel to know how badly we’re outnumbered
. A sane plan would be a stupid plan.

Nos wishes he could extract Tommy and bolt out of there, let them overrun the base, and go it on their own. But Naomi is at the base, and that makes his number one priority staying alive.
No way to go into a fight. You can’t win a fight if you don’t want to get hit
.

Needing to stay alive puts you at a considerable disadvantage
.

Nos puts out his hand to the operator next to him.

“Nos,” he says.

“Wheels.” They shake. “We should be back at base. Let them come to us,” says Wheels. “What good are we if they shoot us down?”

“We don’t even know what kind of firepower they got down there,” says Nos, knowing the Little Bird chalk is the only semblance of a chance of rescuing Tommy. He keeps the thought to himself, as he doubts the other operators share his priority.

“I heard they got RPGs.”

“Good for ground fighting. It’d be suicidal to point one up in the air. Backlash would probably kill the shooter.”

“That’s a load of horse shit, and you know it.”

The operator is right. Anyone who’s seen action knows it’s a lie.

“Eyes ready, then. Don’t give ‘em the chance.”

“You, too.”

Nos obliges. He shoves the stock of the SR-25 semiautomatic sniper rifle into his shoulder and checks the scope and surveys the ground.

The militia is bigger than he’d feared. Shoulder to shoulder, they occupy almost a square mile. Worse, there are women and children squeezed in between the armed raiders.

“Fuck,” Nos mutters to himself.

“What you got?”

“Civilians.”

“They’re all
civilians
.”

“Women and children.”

No response.
Guess they aren’t surprised. And aren’t at all concerned with Rules of Engagement. Can’t say I much blame them. Our kids or theirs. Naomi or one of those crumb snatchers down there. Easy call
.

Nos tries to find possible RPGs but can’t see much, as the militia is huddled too close together. He sees Tommy kneeling behind an ammo can, with a well-fed muscle man holding a giant axe a swing away.

It’s Nos’ job to snipe the axeman and take out the retinue around Tommy. He has a clear shot at that moment and wishes he could take it.
Got to stick to the plan
.

Three more birds hover behind Super Nine Three and spread out. Their pilot, a former Night Stalker who the operators call Iron, flicks the switch to arm the TOW missiles. Nos slides his trigger finger over the trigger guard and checks back at the base as the four fuel tankers drive through the concentric series of walls and fences.

He feels a pang of doubt.
Tooth Fairy’ll see this coming, the vile fucker
.

As the fuel tankers ride out of the base and into the road, Nos quickly sees how right he is. Loud bursts fly from the grounds surrounding the road. Telltale trails of black smoke wind at the tankers and hit hard. One by one the tankers blow up into colossal bright balls of flame.

The tankers weren’t full of fuel, but explosives. Westbrook had hoped the tankers could get closer to the militia before they blew, but the Tooth Fairy figured it out and fired RPG’s on them instead. No surprise, no advantage.

Now all shit breaks loose
.

Repercussions thunder though the sky and blow the Little Birds off course. Super Nine Three tilts right and dives to the ground. Nos and the other operators cling for dear life. The bird cuts down on a sharp angle, and the red earth thrusts up to greet them.